


Friction of Kneading

by To_Shiki



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis likes touching his friends, Massages, bbcmusketeers kink meme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:30:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1364077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/To_Shiki/pseuds/To_Shiki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the BBC Musketeers Kink Meme:<br/><i>I don't even know if massage was a thing in 17th Century France, but I imagine if anyone knows how to work the knots out of tense and aching muscles it's Aramis. So let's see him giving one of his friends a massage.</i></p>
<p>
  <i>Or maybe a 3 times Aramis gave someone a massage & one time someone returned the favour?</i>
</p>
<p>This one shall be 4 times Aramis gave a massage and one time someone(s?) returned the favor</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Head

By the time he’d returned from another taxing patrol everything in his room had been rearranged. His bed had been pulled away from the wall with upturned crates on both sides and the sheets washed and neatly made. Scattered on the bedside crates and any available surface were low burning candles, their faint glow warming the room more than any fireplace. A careful sniff of the air hinted at pine needles and honey. No empty wine bottles clattered about his feet as he stepped fully into his room.

“Do I even want to know how you got them to be quiet?” he questioned as he shut his door. ‘Them’ being his overly active neighbors who never seem to understand his requests to pull their bed away from the wall every night. “And where did all my wine go to?”

Behind him Aramis approached and assisted Athos in relieving himself of all but his shirt and breeches. “Your neighbors drive a hard bargain. But after I’ve had my wicked way with you you’ll agree no price is too steep.” The ladies man of the little group waggled his eyebrows suggestively and grinned. “Now! Onto the bed so we can do this properly.”

It took great self restraint for Aramis to not clap his hands together in mock glee. No use adding to Athos’s budding migraine and in turn making more work for himself.

“I don’t know, Aramis.” Athos gingerly lowered himself onto his bed. “You’ve had your “wicked way” with me before and it wasn’t worth the price.” A long relieved sigh escaped as he finally lay his head down on the pillow and closed his eyes.

Aramis couldn’t help but scoff, quietly, at the accusation. “Ha! We were interrupted last time, if you would kindly recall. That shall not happen this night. Now. Scoot down a bit. I need room if I’m to work my magic on your poor head.” Even knowing that his patient had his eyes closed he still made a scooting gesture with one hand while grabbing the small bottle of oil with the other.

“That better be an improvement over that god awful mint you tried last time,” Athos warned as the other man settled down with Athos’ head between his spread thighs.

Aramis feigned wounded pride. “But of course, monsieur. This is from my personal stash. Even Porthos swears by it.” Yanking the cork stopper free he poured a generous amount onto one hand before settling his precious bottle on the floor. “Besides. How was I to know you’re allergic to peppermint?” He rubbed his hands together briskly to warm the oil and let his own skin absorb some of the excess liquid.

Once he felt it was warm enough he gently pressed his index and middle fingers against Athos’ temples and began rubbing in tight circles. Slowly he dragged his fingers up to spread across the tense forehead, the rest of his fingers joining in the massage. Slick with the oil he was able to apply just the right amount of pressure as he slid his fingers down the sides of the nose and around the eyes. When he noticed that he was running out of oil he gradually pulled his hands away so as not to disrupt his work.

As he poured more Athos asked, “Is that… Is that what you use in your hair sometimes?” It took two tries to get the question out because as soon as he had enough on his hands Aramis brought his fingers back up and placed the tips on his scalp, digging in and drawing out a moan borderline sexual from the pleasure his attention created.

“Hmm? Ah, no. This is only for headaches, really. I’ve found a trader that brings me back something called shea butter from Africa. Only a handful of shiny coins yet it works wonders on my hair.” Gentle tugging at the blond hair curling around his fingers. “No more talking. Only relaxing.”

Down, down those magical fingers went. Under his skull to the base where he alternated using fingers and knuckles to get just the right amount of pressure. A good five minutes to go from base of the skull to the shoulders, rolling and alternating pressure as he went.

Long minutes passed like that. Aramis hunched over his prone friend with his fingers cycling from face to scalp to neck. Legs on either side of his head radiating body heat only adding to the relaxation. Once Athos’ breathing evened out Aramis ceased his ministrations. He replaced the cork, pocketed the bottle, and carefully maneuvered out of bed. Almost an hour’s worth of work and he didn’t want to risk ruining it by accidentally rattling the bed or, Heaven forbid, kicking the slumbering musketeer in the head.

As he tiptoed around the room blowing out the candles he stretched and arched his back to work out the kinks from sitting hunched over for so long. He left a handful burning by the door so as to see that he was putting his boots on the correct feet. Boots on and cape back over his shoulders he extinguished the last two candles. Hand on the doorknob he was almost outside when he heard Athos whisper.

“Def’ly worth it, Ar’is.”


	2. Shoulders and Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Porthos' turn.

“Your back’s as bad as d’Artagnan’s attempt at knitting.”

“How s- Oh! Right there!”

“It’s full of knots!”

Both men grunt at his comment. Aramis’ from the effort he’s putting in and Porthos’ much longer one the result of said effort. Another, sharper, grunt as Aramis’ skilled hands finally work one of the smaller knots by his neck loose.

The room they were using was stuffy and lit only by the fireplace and a few scattered scones. Windows closed tight to keep out the approaching winter chill. Porthos’ bed was layer shy of being rock hard. The linens doing nothing to keep the straw filling from the mattress from poking him. Or Aramis’ knees and shins from where he knelt over his friend’s prone body.

It was a far cry from what he’d done to help Athos several weeks ago. No softly burning candles or scented oils to relax the mind and body.  Just a quick but efficient break down of the major knots until a later, better, time.

He wanted to be close by.

Just in case the surgeon needed another pair of hands.

Cramping fingers dug into a stubborn knot as he recalls the ambush. They were only five miles away from the city limits, tired but successful in their mission for their king. Afterwards, as they raced towards the gates, it was easy to see that the bandits had purposely targeted their youngest member. Whether it was because he was young or appeared to have the most energy at the time, they’ll never know.

They finished them off quickly, Porthos straining from a new level of exhaustion to heave their fallen brother onto his horse before mounting himself. Then maneuvering the unconscious young man into a seated position to hold him upright as they raced towards help.

Now, with aching heart and hands, Aramis works on Porthos. Both men are able to hear the soft cries and soothing words from the other half of their group.

Resigned, he goes back up to those strong shoulders. Each side carries a knot the size of an unshelled walnut. Sore hands give way to pointy elbows. When the pain of grinding the sharp point of bone gets to be too much for Porthos to bare without squirming, Aramis uses his knees to help keep him still.

Slowly. Painfully. With a lot of elbow grease and swearing the bundle of muscles over the right shoulder blade _finally_ give one final crunch of muscle and tendon before straightening out completely.

Elbow still resting on the now tender spot Aramis sighs in relief. His head hangs between his own weary shoulders for a moment before he gathers himself for the left shoulder blade’s knot. As he elbows the other side into submission he grumbles, “You should come to me, or even your lady friend, before it gets this bad.”

“Alice,” Porthos sighs dreamily from thoughts of her and the joy of having a massage. “She’s not strong enough.” His reasoning is interrupted by such a pleased moan when the left shoulder’s fixed that someone pounds on the wall and yells “knock it off or give us a show!”

The other side of the wall houses all those laid up by illness or injury. They can only leave on one of two conditions: the surgeon releases them or they sneak out without him noticing.

“I’ll give them a show, all right. Breathe in.”

Obeying his disgruntled friend’s order, Porthos breathes in deeply and holds it. On either side of his spine he feels hands bracing themselves.

“Now exhale.”

A rush of air and a firm push has his spine cracking and popping back in place.

“Oh, yeah, baby! Lower!” Porthos chuckles as someone pounds on the wall again. It’s quickly cut short as he’s once again ordered to inhale.

Four more times as Aramis makes his way to the small of his back. At each crack of his spine he runs firm pressure out from the center, rubbing down strained muscles freed from the unnatural pull from a poor back. Each groan of relief has more pounding on the wall from the infirmed.

“And last but not least,” Aramis announces, knuckles rubbed red from where they work out the last smaller knots from Porthos’ lower back. Slowly he eases himself down until he’s sitting right on the meat of Porthos’ ass. He can _feel_ the tailbones shift as he let’s all his weight rest on his new seat.

“You know, if you two wanted privacy you should have shut the door.”

Aramis’ head jerks over to the left towards said door. In the _open_ doorway stand Athos, shirt and sleeves covered in drying blood. “Is he-“ There’s a lump forming in his throat at the thought of being so engrossed in helping Porthos that he didn’t hear anyone call for him.

“He’s fine. Well, as fine as he can be, considering,” comes the soft reassurance as Athos makes his way into the room. When he locks the door and starts cleaning up in the waiting water basin, he orders, “Get off of Porthos and into the bed next to him. The room’s ours for tonight in case your medical skills or just our very presence is needed for d’Artagnan.”

Stress from worry now lifted Aramis ignores Athos’ orders and simply drapes himself over the now sleeping man beneath him. “’m good,” he mumbles, humming when he feels a blanket laid over him. “heat’s good for muscles.” His boots are removed as he noses at the shirt pillowing his head. Between one breath and the next he’s out until the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look who finally updated this! Haven't even looked at it in over a year and suddenly got the urge to write the next chapter. All in one hour, no less. Hopefully I can crank out more chapters for this and all the others I'm working on. But I'm in a far off country right now with wonky internet. So we'll see! Enjoy!! ^_^


	3. Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long night doing paperwork deserves company

One of the many things that Captain Jean-Armand Treville of the King’s Musketeers took pride in was the fact that not only could he use wield a weapon with either hand, he could also fill out the mountain of paperwork.  A skill that never ceased to serve him well when duty left the letters and other important documents piled up.

Write until one hand cramps up.  Then switch and repeat until the mountain becomes a small hill.

Many peaceful nights pass this way.  The fire burning low, crackling comfortably in the background.  Quill scratching rhythmically across the parchment.  Drunken signing dying away as the outside world falls asleep.  All that’s can be heard over the _pop-crackle_ of burning wood and rasp of pen tip to paper was his calm, easy breathing.

_Their_ peaceful, relaxed breathing.

The younger man had stumbled in well after the last bell of midnight.  As Treville was lighting a few more lamps to illuminate his work he could see the dark circles under dull eyes.  Appearance more disheveled than usual and lacking his more typical energetic entrance had the Captain quietly inviting Aramis into his office.

No one within the ranks of the King’s Musketeers were strangers to the difficulties nighttime brought with it.  Some nights it’s alright.  Some another body is needed.  A presence stronger than their own to help keep the terrors at bay.

“Aramis?”

“I’m fine,” comes the weary sigh.  “It’s just…  d’Artagnan’s with Constance, Porthos was called back to the Court of Miracles.  Athos is God knows where.  I…”

“Everyone you trust is with someone but you and me,” Treville finished.  He returned to his desk and sat.  “Come and join me, René.  I could use some company while I read over more of the Cardinal’s nonsense.”

A huff of laughter escaped the weary musketeer as he took his Captain up on his offer.  Instead of sitting in one of the chairs across from his desk, he went over to grab one of the spare blankets stored in a nearby chest.  Folding it up he set it down on the floor to Treville’s right and sank down on top with a heavy sigh.

_‘One of those nights,’_ Treville thought as Aramis leans against his leg, facing the opposite direction.  Saying nothing, he briefly runs his hand through neglected hair before returning his attention to his work.  The smile that formed when he felt a hand wrap around his ankle remained in place for a long time.

It was replaced an hour later with a frown.  His right hand was making it known that it didn’t appreciate his prolonged usage after an already long day.  Not wanting to risk waking Aramis, whose weight had grown heavier against his leg as the night progressed, he let loose a quiet curse.  Shaking his hand out did nothing to help.

He was halfway through _another_ missive from Armand and if he switched hands that crafty bastard would notice it right away.  Treville wouldn’t hear the end of the man’s nagging over his unhealthy work habits.  As if the other man was any better.

A quiet voice coming from below startles him.  “Such language, dear Captain!”  Voice scratchy from the light slumber he’d fallen in to, Aramis continues no louder.  “Whatever would the Cardinal, the most holiest, say if he could hear you now?”  A most ungentlemanly snort interrupted his question when saying ‘holiest’.

“He would say,” Treville clears his throat dramatically, “Jean-Armand Treville!  How many times have I told you _not_ to work so late!  You have no one but yourself to blame for your hands hurting like they are.”

Treville’s comical impersonation of the fierce man does nothing to distract Aramis from that last line.  “Is that why you swore?  Are your hands bothering you again?”

This late at night, there are no walls between captain and subordinate.  When Aramis makes grabby hands at him like a child Treville does nothing more than sigh as he obeys.

A sigh of relief this time as Aramis begins to work his magic once more.  He wants to go back to work, Cardinal’s badgering be damned.  But the way Aramis works at relieving him of the painful cramping is too distracting. 

So he sits back and closes his eyes.  Bony knuckles dig into his dry palm.  A few seconds pass before their fingers are laced together and Aramis bends their hands, smiling at the numerous cracks as joints are flexed.  Thumb and forefinger pinch each of his fingers and pull down, compressing and releasing tensed muscles.  A couple of the end joints also give way to cracking, drawing a confused frown from the relaxing captain.  “That felt… weird.”

“Shh,” his sharpshooter commands.  His eyes are half closed, focusing on his work more through touch.  His own posture starts to relax as he narrows his focus on nothing more than helping Treville. 

Each finger and thumb are worked over carefully.  Pinched and rubbed and flexed to loosen up and allow circulation once more to the abused limb.  Callouses from guns and swords are caressed lightly, soothingly.  Aramis makes his way back up the fingers, over the palm.  The wrist gets the same treatment – minus the bending.

The lamplight has dimmed considerably by the time Aramis’ massage shifts to nothing more than gentle caresses.  Working the cramp out of Treville’s hand had lulled him into a peaceful trance.  One that his captain was loathe to wake him from.

As Aramis continues to rub his right hand Treville picks up his quill with the left.  A little bit of ink and he’s back to finishing his last letter of the night.  The Cardinal’s voice in him mind is drowned out when Aramis simply holds his hand against his unshaven cheek and breathes. 

Whatever complaining may come his way will be worth it.  He turns his hand, warm and pain free, to cradle his tired musketeer’s cheek.  _‘A night well spent,’_ he thinks, thumb brushing soothingly under Aramis’ left eye.  The gentle motion the least he can do in thanks without rousing the now slumbering man.


	4. Legs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Artagnan's turn. Misunderstandings lead to him experiencing Aramis' talented hands. A little short, but still sweet.

“Tell me, again, how you got in this mess.”

“No.”

They all already knew quite well how it had happened. If was just too much fun to tease the young Garcon.

“I hate all of you,” the young man complains from where he lays on the inn’s bed. One arm’s thrown over his eyes, the billowy sleeve blocking most of his embarrassment from view.

His announcement amuses his three friends as he hears when they chuckle quietly.

“You hate me?” Aramis asks, fake hurt dripping from his voice as he brings both hands to his chest, aghast at such news.

D’Artagnan’s quick to amend his previous statement. “Nooo! Not you, Aramis! Them! I hate Athos and Porthos for being horrible brothers. You are amazing and loved by all!”

Now Athos and Porthos, the hated ones, were out right laughing now. Despite the pain he was in it was worth it to hear Athos so open with his amusement. Although the bottles of wine Aramis had sweet-talked the inn’s mistress into sharing had certainly helped to end their dramatic night on a better note.

Placated with the return of his favorite Garcon’s love of his person, Aramis brings his hands back down to their original task. The laughter dies down slowly as everyone turns back to their moans softly in appreciation of Aramis’ skill. Athos and Porthos, busy enough with cleaning their weapons, try not to be too jealous.

It was only fair that their youngest brother finally gets to experience the magic that is their sniper’s healing hands.

D’Artagnan had made a bit of a mess of his legs on their most recent mission. Too much stress saving young women from traffickers and escorting them home. Then more running from an irate father misunderstanding who d’Artagnan was as he walked a rattled young lady home. Both dirty and red faced from their ordeals.

When he’d rejoined them that night, limping and wheezing, they’d all sighed in relief now that all were accounted for. While Aramis ordered him on the bed, the other two proceeded to strip him of his weapons and filthy outerwear.   Aramis waited patiently on the bed as d’Art wiped off the sweat cooling on his face before collapsing on his back on the bed.

Legs on Aramis’ lap, he forces himself to relax as sore muscles are rubbed down. His pounding heart slows, following the steady rhythm Aramis sets. Aramis’ calm breathing lulls everyone into a softer state.

Aramis himself sits cross-legged between d’Artagnan’s spread legs. Strong thighs rest atop his as he works strained muscles and tensed ligaments. Frist one then the other, not switching until he can feel the young man’s leg giving easily under his touch. Thighs done he moves back gently. Knees carefully manipulated as he massages the areas above and below the joint.

Tensed calves are next. Whatever peace d’Artagnan has found in this past half hour shall soon disappear.

“d’Artagnan,” the sniper tries to rouse the dozing man to no avail.

From across the room Athos speaks up, “Just do it, Aramis. No point dragging it out.”

Porthos hums in agreement. “The sooner the better. Maybe the suddenness of it coming and going will help him fall back asleep.”

With a bracing sigh he presses his knuckles hard into the meaty muscles on either side of the strong legs and slides down. He does it again, despite the yelp of protest from his young brother.

“I take it back! I take it back!”

Twice more he runs his friction burned knuckles up and down the tender area. D’Art’s hands weakly flail at him in protest. At least until the other man moves back to actually rubbing instead of dragging dull knives through his poor abused flesh.

The abrupt lack of pain combined with the soothing warmth has him sagging back onto the thin mattress. All three chuckle quietly when a mumbled, “okay, I love you again,” reaches their ears.

Weapons are cleaned, oiled, and put away. One exhausted musketeer has fallen asleep by the time Aramis finishes with his legs. The three Inseparables ready themselves fore sleep as quickly and quietly as they can.

Athos and Porthos share the second bed so that Aramis can cuddle up to d’Artagnan. The two older men fall asleep to Aramis’ soft singing as he runs a hand up and down one of d’Artagnan’s arms.

His singing soon dies down as the comforting motion eases him off to sleep as well.

If, in the morning d’Artagnan can walk around without limping results in him bear hugging the breath out of Aramis…

Well the only ones who needs to know would be their Captain and Constance. For future reference on how to thank someone for treating injuries, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's next!


End file.
